Blind Luck : A Roy James Novel

Summary

Roy James, is an ex-boxer who now runs a debt-collecting business. One day, a beautiful woman appears at his office and asks for his help. Her husband is a violent brute and she asks Roy to change his habits. Although a seemingly simple job at first, there seems to be a lot more going on behind the scenes than Roy first expected. The police get involved and the chase leads all the way to Vegas so Roy can clear his name and keep his business clean.

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Blind Luck - Reggie Stanford

9

CHAPTER 1

I was fucking exhausted by the time I got back to my apartment. My stomach made sure I wouldn’t forget to eat, as I had been neglecting it all day. I was far too tired to take the time to prepare anything, and I was more than likely to eat the ingredients raw, before they finished. The punch line was that after checking the fridge, it stood as empty as when I bought it so I didn’t even have any ingredients to eat. All it contained was a box of pizza, without any pizza, just a single slice. At my state, even the dried up cheese and hunks of meat, along with the stale crust were more appetizing than one finds the burgers in those fast food commercials. It’s funny how much your standards drop after spending twelve hours on your ass in a hot office.

I tossed the remaining slice onto a plate and loaded it into the microwave to nuke it for a minute. It was unlikely I could wait any longer anyway. There was a dull thudding which I at first thought was coming from the microwave. I quickly opened it, and took a bite of the pizza to make sure it was still edible. It was, but the thudding sound hadn’t died down. It sounded like when one of my younger neighbors has a party and the whole group clomps down the stair after pregaming in the apartments below mine, except this was a lot more rhythmic. A steady clop of boot against step. The stepping in the stairs continued past what was the first floor. A group. No. A team. Police? FBI? Someone is definitely having themselves a shitty night tonight.

I returned my focus to my pizza and took one bite after the next, enjoying the greasy deliciousness, but swallowing without even really tasting it. The steps were growing loud enough to make them hard to ignore. I stopped midbite when I heard them halt at the third floor. Maybe there was a party and they had to break it up. I started chewing again slowly, until it started again. But it wasn’t quieting down. Instead of going back down the stairs, they were continuing to the fourth floor. My flour. This was a bit of a problem for three reasons. I was the only one on this floor, there was no alternate exit I could take, and I still wasn’t done my pizza. I hoped they got a suicide call from the roof and were on their way to pull the guy back, but it was a rather slim chance.

Police! Open up! A gruff voice calls from beyond the door.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

My mind started racing through all of my possibilities. The one I most preferred, was that a place called Pizza Police had opened up, and were delivering a free pizza, but I gave that one only 1:6 odds. I couldn’t climb out the window and jump down to the street, my apartment is much too high for that. I didn’t have a back door of any sort, or a secret exit of any kind.

Bam. Bam. Bam. The knocking on the door continued.

Police! Open the door! The same voice yelled again.

I’m coming! For fuck’s sake, one minute. I yelled back.

They didn’t even wait for me to finish unlocking it, instead a battering ram knocked it clean off of its hinges. Great, now I have a door to fix too. This night is absolutely delightful. The men entered with well-practiced maneuvers. Trigger fingers itching, as they scanned all around the house even after two of them trained their guns on me. I recognized them. MP5 submachine guns. Reliable in urban combat, but not my first choice for trek through the jungle. These were housing 9 mm rounds, not my preferred size to have aimed at my face, however I figured requesting BB’s was out of the question.

My guess had been correct. There were a total of four armed men in my apartment. I was knocked forward and a felt a knee on my back while my hands were cuffed. They had every angle covered as one would expect from good law enforcers.

The fifth guy entered the room as well. I couldn’t tell at first if he was waiting for my detainment, or if he had simply taken his time on the stairs. He had a smug grin on his face and some casual clothes as if he had been undercover. He did have an air of authority over the other four men.

When he spoke his voice had an edge of malice.

You are under arrest for murder in the first degree! he said while he showed outwardly signs of emotion.

This was on the 26th day of August, in 1981.

* * * * *

Six days earlier, on August twentieth, it was a Tuesday afternoon and the heat was unbearable. Just a typical hot summer day in Brooklyn. I was sitting at the office considering a trip to Alaska, or upgrading my ceiling fan and eventually settled for rolling up my sleeves. I was reading the sports section of the newspaper and I was thinking to myself how nothing ever changes for me. Sitting on my ass all day never had appealed to me, but it had recently become my life. I heard steps heading down the hall to my office, light but clicking with each step, like a woman in high heels. The narrow corridor amplified sounds like this. When my visitor arrived at the door, I only saw her silhouette, but she looked rather promising. Tall. Thin. She opened the door without knocking, and stormed straight to my desk. She was wearing sunglasses and smelled of perfume, with an aura of both femininity and confidence.

I’m looking for Mr. Roy James! she said, not even bothering with a greeting.

Good afternoon. That is me. How can I be of service? I asked.

My name is Talisha Kirkwood.

I immediately began making observations of her finer details. Long wavy blonde hair falling to her shoulders, her white dress had clearly been fitted for her form and ran to about mid-thigh length. She was tall for a woman, about 6 ft. She looked like something off of the cover of a fashion magazine. I wasn’t too easily impressed but this woman had a unique effect on me. There was something else in her aura, something inexplicable unlike confidence or femininity. She was radiant. Electric beams shot out of her pores, charging the entire room. She was the type of woman who picks her prey, makes them her toy until they are too tired to run anymore, and leaves them there, struggling to get back up for the rest of their life. I closed my mouth, which I now realized had opened in awe, and became the black James Bond.

I’m so glad to have found you! she continued, and offered her hand.

I shook it. Her skin was so soft; she must have spent half a fortune just on skin care and cosmetics. By her side she had a handbag just big enough to carry a tube of lipstick, a bottle of perfume, or a .38 caliber snub-nose. You can never tell with those. She let out a long sigh.

I don’t even know where to start. she said, there was a slight wavering in her voice.

Let’s start all the way at the beginning and we’ll see if I can help you.

For some reason this line, no matter how cliché always helped ease their minds. I tried to look into her eyes, but she still hadn’t taken off her sunglasses, even though my office was somewhat darkened.

Exactly what is it you do, Mr. James? she asked me.

I answered her question with one of my own.

How did you find me? I doubt Yellow Pages would have spat anything out about me, especially if you searched by name. Clearly you know the type of business I conduct, I expertise in pest removal, but have a large repertoire. What is it exactly that you need from me? In the worst case, I may know someone who does what you are looking for.

Actually, you were recommended to me. she said curtly.

Then I accept the job. I said without breaking eye contact, or while looking where I assumed her eyes were behind those sunglasses.

Her face changed to an expression of surprise.

B-but you don’t even know what the job is yet!

Well, it’s rather easy to guess. You got my name from someone, therefore you know what it is I do. I explained. You never took off those less than trendy sunglasses, so I assume you’re hiding something. A black eye? Someone beat you. And since you are still wearing a wedding ring, my first guess would be that it’s your husband. Was this the first time?

She went pale. Even through her sunglasses I could see her shock. She then tried to hide the ring sitting on her finger.

No. The second. she said after a brief pause.

I’ll go talk to him.

I had done this at least a hundred times by now. It was pretty generic in this field of work. The difficult part is making it stop. If I openly confront ‘asshole’ then it usually embarrasses or angers him and when he gets home who does he take it out on? The wife. However, if I make it a freak accident in public, then there is no clear message indicating that this is a consequence of beating his wife and I won’t get through to him. Ideally, the woman leaves ‘asshole’ and starts a new life somewhere else, but this is practically unheard of. I have heard almost every single excuse for this and I could go on for days listing these reasons. I try explaining these to Talisha, but her mind has been made up. She wants me to talk to her husband.